


Afterward

by storiesfortravellers



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, BDSM, Battle of New York (Marvel), Belts, Bondage, Clint Barton Feels, Coulson Lives, Dom Needs Aftercare, Dom/sub, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, M/M, Manhandling, Painplay, Phil Coulson Feels, Roleplay, Spanking, Sub!Coulson, dom!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:25:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt at avengerkink on lj: "Domming can be exhausting both physically and mentally, so give me something where the dom needs the aftercare following a scene. Bonus: The sub is someone who is normally in a position of control in their life outside the bedroom."</p><p>Dom!Clint/Sub!Coulson. Makes references to the pain following the Battle of New York when Clint thought Coulson was dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterward

They weren’t new at this.

Clint knew all of his favorites.

He held Coulson’s arm behind his back, pinning him against the wall, whispering brutal threats in his ear. Coulson was strong, wily, and Clint always treated it with the same level of awareness as a real mission, a real threat.

He lifted Coulson over his shoulder and threw him on the bed, held him down with one hand, and whipped Coulson with his belt with the other hand. Aim wasn’t his problem, but Coulson liked to thrash around, and Clint had to struggle to keep him safely in place, since Clint’s arms were still sore from hours of practice on the range that day. 

It was worth it, though, to see Coulson’s ass turn bright red, to see Coulson’s growing arousal.

Interrogation scene, then. They hadn’t done one since the New York, since Phil had come back to him. 

He took his time tying Coulson to the chair, securing his hands behind his back. Clint ignored the pain in his own back (three stories wasn’t _that_ big a jump) as he leaned down to tie knots of red rope around Coulson’s feet and legs. He ripped off Coulson’s shirt then; Coulson always loved that.

This time, Coulson stared down at his own chest, at the scar, wide, with rough edges. 

Clint swallowed, wished for a moment he could stop, that he could leave the room and get his shit together. But this time was for Coulson.

He slapped Coulson in the face, and Coulson stopped frowning at his own body and looked up.

They started.

They used to do this a lot. Physical pain, then mockery, insults, threats. More physical pain, carefully controlled but quite real. Sometimes they made up a secret for Coulson to reveal. Sometimes, Clint made him reveal something real. Made him confess to being jealous, to resenting Clint for making such dangerous calls, to some other open spot that Coulson was too well-pressed to mention any other way.

This time, he tried to make Phil admit that he was still shaken by what had happened in New York. He tried to make Phil acknowledge that it was okay to be scared, wounded.

Instead, when Clint did his worst, Phil confessed: “I don’t think I’m the same.” He was crying as he said it.

Phil didn’t usually cry at this point. 

Clint wanted to step back. But he stepped closer, placed his hand on Coulson’s neck, not squeezing, just asserting his role. “Tell me,” he whispered, demanding, threatening.

Finally, Phil looked up. “Nothing fits anymore. I don’t know what to do, Clint. Nothing feels right anymore.” He looked… apologetic.

Clint felt a cold sharpness in his gut, a blade-bright truth searing into him. If Coulson wasn’t the same… the two of them, what they had… it wasn’t the same either.

Clint wanted to vomit. His limbs felt heavy. But Coulson was tied up and crying and looking up at him, desperate, terrified. He leaned over and placed his hand over Coulson’s chest, covering up half the scar. “Tell me who you belong to,” he ordered, viciously. He didn’t even think it sounded like his own voice.

Coulson paused. Then he said, voice cracking, “You.” 

Clint wanted to ask him things, wanted to demand more. But he knew this part: he pulled out a knife and quickly cut the ties binding Coulson to the chair. He dragged him roughly to the table and bent Coulson over it. He prepared him, slowly, for many minutes, trying to focus on what they were doing, trying to forget everything else. He pushed in and then moved, slowly still, forward and back, trying to last as long as possible (Coulson didn’t like it to be over too soon). When Clint didn’t think he could possibly go any longer, he reached around and finished Phil off, finishing himself soon after.

When he was done, Clint staggered back over to the chair and sat in it. He leaned his elbows on his knees, put his face in his hands. He felt drained. He felt afraid. He felt a thousand possibilities for where this all was going, and most of them weren’t good. 

He felt completely lost. He wished he could just close his eyes and think of nothing. 

He told himself to get a grip. Coulson was bruised and vulnerable and the last thing he needed was to be completely abandoned by Clint. (Again. Just like in New York.)

He told himself that only the shittiest dom in the world would go sulk instead of taking care of his sub.

He still felt glued to the chair.

A hand on his shoulder then. 

“Clint,” Coulson said softly. “It’s okay.”

Clint wasn’t sure that it was. “Sorry. I’m just tired,” he said, looking down.

Coulson smiled, gently. He leaned down and pulled Clint up, supporting him with his shoulder.

“I don’t need help,” Clint said.

“Let me anyway.”

They walked over to the bed together. They lay down, and Clint looked over at him, hesitating.

Coulson pulled him closer, wrapped his arms around Clint. “It’s okay,” Coulson whispered. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint choked out. “You’re not supposed to – you shouldn’t have to--”

“You did great,” Coulson said, holding him tightly still, “I needed that, Clint. I really needed that.” 

Clint leaned his face into Coulson’s neck. He said, not even bothering to pretend not to be afraid, “What you said.”

“I needed to say it. So you can help me through it. I can get through it if I have you, okay?”

Clint looked at his face. Still, after everything, the most trustworthy face he’s ever known.

“I wasn’t worried. Like I said, I was just tired,” Clint said.

Coulson smiled. He wiped a tear off Clint’s cheek that Clint didn’t even know was there. “Then let’s get you some rest. Owning me looks like hard work.”

Clint almost laughed. “Nah,” he said, nestling tighter in Coulson’s arms. “I’ve tried not having you. It’s a lot harder.”

Coulson smiled again, softer, grateful. They leaned against each other then in soft silence, putting aside their fears long enough to close their eyes, long enough to be caught by strands of dreams where they were always together, laughter and heat, the taste of the other man’s lips never far away.


End file.
